Out of the AngelFire and into the FightingRing
by Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog
Summary: The world has literally gone to Hell, which is the only reason Dean's working for Crowley's monster Fight Club - it's the only reason he's babysitting the new angel and not at all because he looks sexy when he's all beat-up while Sam is looking for a certain not-Trickster and Bobby is getting on too well with their boss' Hellhound; until someone who's supposed to be dead arrives.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N This is a GiftFic for the amazing and talented Astroize (tumblr) to whom the kickboxing!AU concept belongs to, and I in no way take credit for the various ideas therein. To my Destiel!AU Overlord, please accept this meagre token of my appreciation - obligitory wing!kink included._

* * *

**Chap.1 Mi Vida Eres Tu (You Are My Life)**

Dean Winchester can be characterized in a number of ways – 'big brother', 'playboy', 'dropout', and 'smartass' are the popular choices – but the only label that can properly encapsulate him in all his damaged glory would be: 'Hunter'.

Dean had been hunting nearly his entire life, trained since an infant to always be on his guard and ready to fight the supernatural at any moment. In diners he sat facing the exit and in motels he always took the bed closest to the door. He slept with his bowie knife in hand and a sawed-off on the bedside table (he _used_ to sleep with his dad's M1911 tucked under the pillow until Sam made the mistake of waking him up by tackling him and a half-awake Dean automatically fired a shot straight through the pillow and took out the motel alarm clock). Even when caught by surprise he was still up and fighting in half a second – no monster could get the jump on him...

...Except when he was watching his soaps.

Growing up on the road and being raised by a crazy-obsessive hunter for a father meant that Dean had had few moments of complete indulgence and, now that he was older and a little bit better adjusted, meant that he prized the times where he could relax like frigging gold.

His ultimate guilty pleasure was watching his soaps and telenovelas, a pastime that both baffled and amused his family but was accepted with little teasing on the unspoken acknowledgment that he deserved his downtimes whatever they were. Of course, just because Sam didn't give him (_too_ much) crap didn't mean Dean was okay watching his serials in the motels or anything – no, nearly all of the actual watching went down at Bobby's where he had Ellen TiVo his stuff and he could settle down and just unwind.

There was an understanding for everyone at the Singer household that when Dean arrived with his pie in one hand and tissues in the other, everyone was henceforth banished from the living room to let him sob on the sofa in peace.

Dean was currently mid way through the latest episode of _Mi Vida Eres Tu_ and a rather nice apple and rhubarb pie, eyes glued to the emotional confrontation on the screen.

"Son of a b-bitch" he choked out as Daniela sobbed brokenly over Gabriel's betrayal.

The cushion beneath him gave a violent lurch.

Frowning at the interruption, he scanned over the room to find nothing amiss. He was about to chalk it up to a very misplaced earthquake, when the sofa started to eat him.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean screamed, flinging out his arms wildly as an invisible force dragged him arse first into the cushions. "Ellen! ELLEN! For the love of–"

The tinny sound of heartbroken Spanish was already fading and Dean, bent in half, panicked when there was no reply.

His desperate "SOMEBODY HELP, QUICK! PAUSE MY SHOW!" was muffled by his knees in his mouth as he disappeared into the lumpy couch.

The crushing darkness pressed in on him, suffocating and unyielding as he was drawn down, down, deep into the abyss where any many of unknown horrors could be –

"Did I interrupt something, Pet?" Crowley asked with an amused smirk as Dean jolted into the chair opposite, slightly dazed. Being swallowed by the sofa was a new one – usually Crowley liked pulling Dean in when he was asleep, something about his absolute terror and disorientation of being sucked into a bed to somewhere else greatly appealing to the demon's sense of humour.

Dean finished (totally not) hyperventilating and scowled pointedly at Crowley's question when the answer was obvious by the pie smeared down his front. That _had_ been his favourite Stones shirt, God damn it, and now–

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. "I see your anger is taking its time to translate into words, so in the meantime I'll do the talking," he said, pointing to the box on the desk. "Your moose just gave me a call and–"

"No!" Dean spat furiously, jumping to his feet to illustrate just how very serious he was. Sadly, the pie-encrusted shirt did lessen the image of the dangerous-and-not-to-be-fucked-with Hunter he was aiming for. "Damn it, I just got _back_ being kicked into next Sunday from getting you that damn Rakshasa, I'm not about to go out _again_. I need some downtime, damn it."

And he was _not_ whingeing, no matter what anyone might say.

Lazily flicking his fingers, the arch-demon sneered as Dean was thrown back into the chair. "I wasn't aware I cared about your feelings," hissed Crowley. "You forget darling, that I own your arse, so when I say 'fetch' you don't bark about it, you _obey_. Or do you need some more 'training'?" A sly smile ensured that was recognized to mean something more along the lines of 'cruel and embarrassing torture'.

Dean grinded his teeth to stop the angry slew of insults he desperately wanted to scream, just in case Crowley was serious. The demon was far too changeable for his liking.

"Now back to business." Crowley tapped the wooden box with a nasty smile. "The giraffe thinks he's uncovered an angel hiding out in Des Moines, and I reckon he's right on the money. So hurry up and collect it before anyone else decides to get a slice of angel cake."

The word 'angel' instantly had Dean on edge – the few they'd managed to wrangle had been the hardest hunts he'd ever undertaken, and the side-order of guilt from enslaving the Host of Heaven was one of the few things that managed to keep him up at night.

"Sam can barely track a werewolf, let alone an angel," scoffed Dean with false bravado. "No way he'd ever stumble on angels in the outfield; us Winchesters aren't known for our luck."

Crowley narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Really? Because you boys seem to be painfully lucky when it comes to stumbling right into something you really shouldn't. Or perhaps it's more... getting the warm fuzzies for the other team now are we?" he mused to himself.

Trying not to look too uneasy, Dean shrugged and shot his winning smile at the demon.

"Actually I'm more of The Lone Ranger type myself," said Dean as casually as possible, eyes refusing to stray onto the polished wood of the box.

"Well then partner, Tonto's a-waitin' for you so y'all best be off," said Crowley cheerily, clapping his hands.

Any further protests Dean would have made lodged in his throat as a blast of putrid air washed over his face. Instinctual fear squeezed his heart tight as he glanced to the left to see Crowley's enormous Hellhound circle him, throat rumbling in a pleased growl when its master petted it.

"Growly's going to keep you boys company," Crowley explained. "Make sure that your work is... undisturbed."

Bristling at that, Dean levelled him a heated glare as he stood. "I don't need the watchdog, Crowley. As you said, I'm your boy toy whether I like it or not but I'll still get the job done. I always do."

Crowley snorted contemptuously, shaking his head. "I'm not worried about your Heaven sympathies – you may be barely functioning morons at best, but at least you boys know better than to try and con a conman. Growly's not for _you_; an angel is Hell's Most Wanted right now and, for some reason, demons _still_ think it's a smart idea to try taking on a pair of Hunters just to get their grubby little mitts on one. I don't want any more repeats of the last angel-hunt you boys went on."

Oh crap, Mystery Spot.

And boy did Dean really _not_ need any reminders of the Tuesdays-that-never-were. Sam had gone apoplectic after that one; his revenge quest to recapture the Trickster had ended in a trail of dead monsters (instead of netting them like he was supposed to) and a livid Crowley when there were no Fighters for the next match, meaning 'a special guest match' instead. Sam had been laid up for a week after the Battle Royale from how hard Lucifer ended up riding his arse and Dean was none too keen to let the Devil back into his little brother again anytime soon.

Silently pocketing the wooden box, Dean patted his leg to the Hellhound – refusing to flinch when the slick oil-like fur brushed the length of his arm. The Hellhound growled happily, making the air shriek as its bone-tail sliced through the air.

"Give 'em Hell, boys!" said Crowley and snapped his fingers.

Wind and darkness rushed into Dean then blasted out into the crisp evening air and happy chatter of American suburbia. A bell tolled in the cathedral behind him, signalling evening Mass.

The vertigo hit him a moment later, passers-by staring as he doubled over and dry-retched at the too-familiar stench of sulphur that accompanied his arrival. Beside him and unseen to the humans, the Hellhound opened its jaws in a horrifying 120 degree yawn, stretching contentedly.

"Still not used to flying '_Demon Air_'yet?"

Dean spat out the taste of rotten eggs and threw Sam a rather good imitation of his brother's bitch-face. "God, is that anyway to greet me? I'm a demon's chew toy – gimme a little sympathy here." Sam sniggered, looking far too smug. Dean stabbed a finger at him, "Hey, if it wasn't because of height restrictions, you'd be getting your giant butt zapped everywhere too."

Sam smirked at Dean. "Yeah, I have to drive everywhere instead. What a pain."

He shot his little brother a filthy look. "Don't think I won't revoke your driving privileges Sammy, because my baby doesn't like being driven around by bitches."

Sam held up his hands in surrender, not bothering to hide his grin.

"So where's this angel at?" asked Dean, assessing the roads in the light of the dwindling twilight.

"Right here." Sam nodded to the church. "St. Ambrose Cathedral, blessed by Pope John Paul II in the 70s and the main church in the Diocese. About a year ago, a man appears overnight and starts living in the Rectory with Father Roberson, but the parish were told he was a relative so not much of a fuss is made. But then the dude never leaves and the only times he was even seen was at Mass – apparently he went to every single one."

"And you think this guy is an angel 'cause of that?" scoffed Dean. "Sounds to me like Father Roberson just decided to stash his gay lover next door for some side action between work or something. It's not even that suspicious! Least, not enough to fall into our territory."

Cue epic annoyed bitch-face. "That's not all, Dean. Get this, not long after he arrives, some of the church-goers try and question him and he starts spouting all this talk to do with angels and demons, and everyone just assumes he's crazy. Until a few months back. Then everything – every single mention of this mystery guy just stops, but not because he'd left. When I came to check, thinking it was nothing, like you, a one lady lets slip that there was a healer amongst them. When I dug a bit further, turns out that almost twenty people were 'miraculously cured', all of them parishioners here. _But,_ none of them had told the hospitals or papers or anything, so all these 'healings' weren't obvious enough to draw attention."

He finishes with a look that just screams, "TOLD YOU SO!" but Dean has never admitted to being wrong to his kid brother unless it was life-or-death important that he do so – besides, he's got an image to pretend to himself he still has.

Sam's knowing smirk still pisses him off though, and refuses to disappear even after receiving an annoyed shove.

Grumbling loudly, Dean eyed the church complex and the people slowly filing in for the weekday service. The buildings were all of pale stone in that old-worldy European style with the cathedral dominating the area ('the large belltower was the perfect vantage point, ideal conditions for sniping and damn it that feathered bastard better not have though that too') and the rectory was painfully close ('easy to slip from building to building, gotta remember to cover all exits'). It was on a street corner to boot, which meant no privacy ('which meant civilians and like a billion escape roots, damn this angel!').

"This is going to be really hard," said Dean slowly.

"Gee, you think?" Sam said sarcastically, "And normally it's so easy to catch an angel but today? Today it'll be a walk in the– is that _pie_ down your shirt?"

Annoyed, Dean smacked his arm roughly before pulling out the Beretta, checking it as he spoke. "So if this maybe-angel attends every service and lives in the Rectory, the only time he'll be outside will be for a few seconds at most when he leaves."

Sam nods, moving his own body to ensure his checking his own gun go unnoticed. "The space between the two buildings is about three metres wide but there's nothing to conceal us, so we can't jump him there, and the Rectory isn't viable either – there's sigils making sure only certain people can enter. I almost cracked a rib trying to break in."

This was just getting better and better. "So what, our only chance is in the Church?" asked Dean unhappily. "'Cause if that's what you're suggesting, that's a terrible plan."

"Most demons can't enter the church," Sam shrugged, "So he probably won't be on guard."

"_Probably_?" Dean repeated. "Well, that's very reassuring."

Sam raised his brows. "Got a better plan, Einstein?"

From behind, the Hellhound gave an impatient whine. Sam jumped, looking around blindly for the source of the noise.

"Was that – is that a Hellhound?" he asked worriedly, hand shooting to rest on his gun.

Dean hummed an affirmative, busy frowning thoughtfully at the Cathedral.

"Why the _hell_ did Crowley send his Hellhound with you?" said Sam, shuffling closer to Dean as he still tried to pinpoint the invisible creature. "He never has it come on hunts."

"Scared, Sammy?" said Dean with a grin.

"I'm not _scared_ – I just don't like being around those things, _especially_ when I can't even see them."

And okay, _wow_, how could Dean have even forgotten that? A little over a year of being some demon's bitch, but he should never _ever_ get used to that, forget that it's _not_ normal to be able to see things that other humans can't, things not even other _Hunters_ can perceive. That tiny, subtle reminder of his curse – the mark of his failure as a Hunter, as a son and brother. As a _person_.

Scenting his dark mood in the air, the Hellhound growled deep in its throat, prowling behind him to rub disgusting fur-pelt-skin-_whatever_ against his back in a comforting gesture that made him went to vomit.

He didn't want that false reassurance, that facade of kinship from a monster that only he could see, the type of _thing_ he'd been fighting against his whole life. He shuddered in horror, forgetting for a moment that Sam was still there, could still see _him_, jumping when a large hand clapped his shoulder.

"You okay, man?" asked Sam, searching his face worriedly.

Dean wanted to scream, scream and yell, _"Don't touch me! I'm a monster, Sammy, can't you _see_ that? Can't anyone see what I am?"_ because it wouldn't do any good. He could stare at himself in grimy hotel mirrors for hours and try and find some kind of tell that he was not right, not some ordinary Joe who had never heard of angels or demons; that still held the rights to his own soul. But there was nothing. He'd gotten so good at lying, at hiding to truth – who he _really_ is, deep down – from the world that he didn't even recognise himself when he looked in the mirror anymore.

He didn't know that professional, smiling man who could walk right up to a person and calmly stab them in the back at the whim of some demon.

And Dean was suddenly struck with a very stupid and dangerous plan. And really, really wished he could think of a better one.

* * *

Oak pew, furnished in Davenport. Old hands that were rough and worn from many years work liked working knew the wood well. Oak but not from one tree. Many trees a forest a forest with a stream. Little owl lived in a hollow there many years family of owls liked their hollow their tree. But not just one tree _this_ tree was not loved by a family of owls but was tall reached for the sky the sun liked the sun warmth on its bark its leaves. Shiver in the wind whisper whisper howl in a storm shake the leaves but tree stands tall stands firm. Then pain. Pain pain pain pain. Cutting _cutting_ _away_ no soil no sun. Falling. Down. Down down into nothing. Dead dying lie lying. Lying down never waking falling down never breaking.

"Not the singing type?" Lightning in the sky strikes the tree sets ablaze. A rough voice piercing through his unconscious and tearing at his serenity. The memories the sensations everything breaking broken _shattered_.

The sudden words are almost painful to Castiel, jerking him back into the present moment with a gasp. Sound slammed back into him, the loud chorus of human voices grating on his ears, singing their worship to the Son of God in feeble harmony. Nothing like the sweet music of the angels in Heaven. But the humans made up for it with pure adulation, a deeper love that came from a faith that could not be proven, and yet, not be shaken either. More powerful than any angelic choir.

Raising his bowed head, Castiel eyed the man who had spoken to him. Sprawling posture: disrespectful uncaring purposefully alluring. Well worn clothes: not rich, likes what he owns, active lifestyle. Calloused hands: job is rough, works with hands. Dirty blond hair, short and unstyled. Stubble, freckles, bow-lips quirked in a roguish grin. Eyes the most brilliant shade of green. Like the forest. A forest of trees, deep and impenetrable, hiding secrets in its depths. Guarded, won't be chopped down, not this forest, not a forest at all, a jungle, wild and unkempt and full of dangers.

"I have no occasion to sing," Castiel finally replied. A lifetime had passed, hours weeks no seconds only seconds not too long don't delay humans respond quickly mustn't forget that.

The newcomer raised his brows in surprise (new a stranger knew everyone in the congregation faces and people and voices and histories dangerous new not safe never safe careful with new unknown don't know). "Really? Don't want to lift up your voice to the Heavens, or whatever?" he smiled, friendly but guarded. Untrusting. Didn't trust him no one ever trusted him. They said there was something off something not human to him right they were right not human at all. The green eyes could tell, could see something strange in him.

The singing finished – the Hosanna – and isn't _that_ ironic, that he, a member of the Host of Heaven, couldn't bring himself to utter the declaration of praise, the cry for salvation, even now when he needed to more than anything. Because he knew, he _knew_ there was no one listening. Not anymore.

All in the congregation that are able kneel as one, those too old or injured remaining seated as the Eucharistic Prayer is recited by Father Roberson. Neither Castiel nor the man beside him kneels, but they're at the back, so no one pays them any mind. The familiar words wash over Castiel, soothing but bittersweet, a reminder of what has been lost. Zoning out is easier now than when he first manifested on earth, the sounds and sensations that come with the physical world no longer so grating.

Normally, he just sat through Mass and meditated, the pleasant hum of hundreds of human souls buzzing with faith was just enough to slowly heal him, sowing back together his tattered Grace. Each passing week he grows stronger, but not strong enough yet, not to fight the lost war alone.

This time, there is a strange murmur that disrupts the pulse of faithful souls, something stronger and darker that also burns as bright as wildfire. Castiel is a bee, drawn irrevocably to this new flower, pulled by the sweetest of scents, more potent by its uniqueness, a rare blossom in a field of common garden.

He wasn't at all surprised it was the forest-green eyed man who is switching between being openly bored and appraising Castiel.

Catching him staring back, the stranger grinned wolfishly, not at all abashed by the scrutiny, before pointedly turning back towards the front of the church and feigning interest in the proceedings, a playful smirk as he pretended to ignore him. Castiel tried tuning in to the man's soul once more, but the congregation chose that moment to noisily stand and his concentration was lost.

He paid no attention to the parishioners' chorus of the Lord's Prayer, and the stranger didn't bother reciting it either.

"Hah," the green-eyed stranger murmured, but Castiel still heard him. "'_Who art in heaven_'? Poor suckers don't know God has left the building."

Rage and sudden alarm arched through him, because it's true too true terribly true but humans don't know can't know ignorant little things that they are. Back tensing in preparation to attack, ready to smite this human who knew too much, knew secrets of a hidden war, and the green-eyed man with the remarkable soul turned to him as well, challenging guarded knowing too knowing –

– and stretched out his calloused hand.

"Peace be with you," said the green-eyed man, an ironic little smirk twisting his lips.

Castiel stared. Then stared at the offered hand. Around them, people were doing the same, repeating "Peace be with you" and shaking hands with a friendly smile.

The sign of peace.

Realisation.

He'd been mistaken not unusual humans _still_ baffled him and he was even now much too caught up thinking like a soldier, jumping to conclusions the man didn't know couldn't know he was right just blindly saying things he knew nothing of anyway probably an _atheist_.

He extended his vessel's smooth unblemished unmarked hand to the other and smiling slightly, stared into forest-green-guarded-too-deep eyes. "Peace be with you," he said and meant it truly _meant_ _it_ for this man, this injured beautiful valiant soul.

_Peace I leave you, my peace I give you._

At once, forest-green eyes turned sad melancholy broken so broken. "Sorry, buddy. Wish things didn't have to be this way."

Rough and calloused, the hand gripped his own and then Castiel was _screaming_, breaking into pieces, ripped and ripped and torn, worse than Hell, worse than demons clawing at his wings, pain unimaginable that was too much endless and he was _breaking_ glass turned to sand an ocean of nothing scattering in the wind tiny little specs grains lines wood oak in a forest of trees people demons screaming howling crying dying lying.

The darkness of the forest watched him fall.

* * *

Stain-glass windows shatter, images of saints and angels vanishing in an explosion of multicoloured light and powdered glass.

The sound is absolutely deafening, piercing the air with an unearthly reverberation that sends everyone to their knees. Even Dean, who had made sure to wear earplugs, was clutching his head in pain one-handed, still locked in the grip of the angel as its Grace is torn from it and it writhed in agony. The true voice of an angel was something that none but a few could withstand – and an angel in pain was unparallel torture. Twice now he had had to do this and every time made Dean want to curl up and die, the angelic wails breaking something deep within him – if he didn't know any better, he'd say it broke his _spirit_, but he's certain if he ever had one it's gone now.

But it didn't matter, couldn't matter to him, because if he cared he couldn't continue on. And he'd _promised_. Sammy and Bobby and Ellen and Jo, all of them were the reason he kept fighting, kept working, even when there was no hope left. Even when he had to go and destroy an angel with piercing blue eyes in a rumpled trench coat. Because his promises were all that still belonged to _him_ and no-one else.

At last, the ringing noise petered out into a silence that was almost tangible, a physical pressure that hung heavy like a fog over the unconscious bodies littering the cathedral. Dean rose shakily, head throbbing in pain as he surveyed the damage.

Every window had been blown out, the candles gutted and every single church attendant out cold. If there were already distant cries of alarm from outside, Dean couldn't hear them; even after pulling out the earplugs the ringing in his ears persisted.

Sam appeared at his side without warning, or maybe Dean really was a little wacked out from angel mojo, because he didn't protest when Sam pushed him back into the wooden pew.

Leaning over him, Sam slides a hand down Dean's arm, jiggling it slightly. He's mystified as to why until a sharp zap arcs through him – Sam gently prying the limp angel's hand from his numb grasp sends a final bolt of power from its host to the little wooden box tucked against Dean's chest. While Sam is checking the angel's vitals – still bent over Dean's lap, and Dean really wanted to make a dirty joke about that but his mind and his mouth apparently aren't getting alone at the moment – Dean's eyes wander the disaster the rest of the church is in. The side entrance has large wooden doors that were shut during the service but now stood wide open; Dean scowled when he realised that must be Sam's fault.

"Didn't lock the door behind you, Sammy," Dean said, slurring a little.

Sam grunted in response, finishing with the angel and settling back into the seat beside him. He was cradling Dean's hand in his own, which was straight out of a chick-flick in Dean's opinion and had to stop immediately before something embarrassing happened, like a _ heart-to-heart_, before _oh God_, Sam was opening his mouth which meant they were going to have a _talk_.

"Can you feel this?" Sam asks at the same time as Dean snarls, "Not the time for having a moment, dude!"

They both blinked in confusion.

"Wait, what?" Dean frowned, because clearly he was missing something here as Sam's face pales in alarm.

"This?" Sam said frantically. "Can't you – doesn't this hurt?"

He holds up Dean's hand so that Dean could see Sam's thumb driving sharply into the bony flesh just above his knuckles. Oh. _Oh_. Yeah, that definitely should be hurting right about now, so Dean tried to focus his wandering thoughts back into the present, on himself instead of all over the place, and sudden searing burning pain finally filters through and hits him hard enough to make him let out a (manly) whimper.

"Feels like most of your bones were shattered," Sam said as Dean cradled his hand to his chest, swearing under his breath.

"Frigging angels, man," he hissed, glaring at the angel being propped against Sam's shoulder, but his brother doesn't give him an ounce of sympathy and instead shoots him another bitch-face.

Even though the ringing in his ears hadn't stopped, Dean can still hear the encroaching sirens and worried voices from outside. Hurrying along the aisle, Dean pokes his head out of the side entrance, but the coast is clear. Sam grunts behind him, half dragging the unconscious angel as he snaps, "Dean, hurry it up, we're almost out of time!"

Dean took offence to that. "Hey man, you were the one spending all that time mooning over _me_ back there," he said irritably, because his hand now felt like it was on _fire_ and this day just could not get any worse.

The doors at the back of the cathedral burst open, men clothed in black rushing in. Great, now the cops were here too. Dean whistles loud and sharp, grabbing the angel's other arm and helping to drag its dead weight outside.

"Leave it," he orders when Sam moves to close the door behind them. The police are yelling at them, shouting that they stop at once but it's too late, they're too late, won't make it in time as the Hellhound rounds the corner of the cathedral at an alarming speed, not slowing down as runs and leaps, jaws opening wide in an unearthly howl.

There's a tug at Dean's chest.

Darkness and wind and the smell of sulphur engulf them.

The police run through the side entrance and skid to a confused halt, staring around in confusion, but the three men had seemingly disappeared into thin air.

* * *

_A/N This (hopefully) shouldn't become abandoned, as I've got most of the story written/outlined already. Update will be soonish._


	2. Family Affairs

_A/N This is way later than I'd planned due to my being very sick, which is also the reason for this boring exposition - I was off my face on meds at the time of writing this. Don't worry, things will be speeding right up next chapter, but warning now that this'll be a long-ish fic._

* * *

**Chapter Two- Family Affairs**

Dean was not happy. At _all_.

He's not a doctor, nurse, maid, or housewife. He is a fearsome hunter; an extremely attractive and manly dude who drives an awesome car and plays by no one's rules but his own. He did _not_ sign up to babysitting a comatose angel. That was chick stuff!

That comment had earned him a hard smack from Ellen and a look so withering it made his balls attempt to climb back into his body (not an unkind word was uttered, but there was definitely some unspoken threats involving kitchen utensils and all the ways they can hurt being directed at Dean via Ellen's eyes).

But Dean was a Winchester, naturally stubborn to a fault, and unabashedly immature, so he was _not_ going to check in on that damn angel again, no matter what Ellen said or did.

And he wasn't warily hiding in the study either. He _wasn't_.

"Boy, will you stop hiding in the study and get your ass back upstairs!" Ellen snapped.

"Why do I gotta keep the bedside vigil?" Dean (very politely) grumbled back. "It's not like Mr. Comatose is going anywhere and these shows aren't going to watch themselves."

He was half expecting the smack for back chatting. "None of you boys know what happens to an angel post-Grace except that something _does_ happen," reminded Ellen, returning to the kitchen. "And I would like a little warning if it's going to explode or go homicidal on us. So get moving."

"Bobby's upstairs, get him to do it."

"_No_. In fact, I don't want him up there anyway 'cause I _know_ he's got a 'secret' stash of booze tucked away somewhere, so when you head on up tell him to come help me with dinner."

"Damnit, Ellen, my show's on and my ice-cream's melting, _it can wait_."

"You're TiVo-ing it, you lazy punk! I've already got Sam to worry about and dinner to make, and you and Bobby ain't helping by moping about the place, so you best get your ass up those stairs before I kick it up there, you hear?"

Judging by her tone, it was definitely time to stop pushing it (especially when kitchen knives were so close at hand).

"Alright, _alright_, I'm going!" Slouching out of the study, Dean quietly muttered, "Frigging _nag_", but under his breath just in case – Ellen had proven to have almost superhuman hearing, and rare was the hushed insult that went unheard in the Singer household.

A wooden spoon hit the side of Dean's head. He put on his best innocent pouty face.

"Don't test my patience," said Ellen testily, "Or you can forget about dinner."

Stomping up the stairs to project his frustration to the rest of the household is _not_ childish not matter what everyone seems to think (they also tell him it's childish to deny that by replying "Is _not_!" but it really isn't, so apparently Dean just can't reason with them), but he will concede that slamming the door and then reopening it to slam it again is beneath him.

He does it anyway.

"_What are you, three?_" is yelled from the attic.

"_Your wife wants you downstairs, talk to her!_" he yells back, smirking in satisfaction when he hears loud and colourful cussing which gets an angry, "_BOBBY SINGER, YOU GET DOWN HERE _NOW _OR I'LL BE SLIPPING LAXATIVES INTO YOUR BLOODY GROG, YOU MARK MY WORDS!_"

Petulant grumbling passes the door as Bobby descends, and Dean sniggers loudly, at least until an annoyed "_If you're laughing I'll delete your shows, boy!_" is shouted back up at him.

Dean huffs and turns, half-considering welching, until he catches sight of the angel – and promptly freaks out.

Now that he's actually here, alone in a room with an angel _he_ made Fall, a prone figure spread out over the covers of Bobby's ratty spare bed, he suddenly couldn't remember what he'd come for, couldn't do anything but _look_.

Black shoes were tucked slightly under the foot of the bed, evidence that Ellen _had_ been there before him, fussing over a frigging _creature_ to make sure it was comfy. Dean had been a hunter – a _good_ hunter – long enough to pay no attention to appearance when judging someone's character, when half the monsters he hunted could pass for human and demons could possess any unfortunate sucker.

But he was looking at an _angel_.

An unconscious angel that wore black socks.

There's something so pedestrian about the sight of feet encased in nondescript black socks that fills Dean with a fascination in the angel that has him moving forward before he can help himself.

He right away glanced nervously at the closed door.

In this house, anyone in a five mile radius could hear when someone walked up or down the staircase, but even so, Dean couldn't help checking over his shoulder as he _casually_ wandered over to the bed. And then _completely casually_ double-checked the door was closed before sitting down on the bedside chair.

He held his breath, listening out for the laughter and accusations that were sure to come, if not from his family, then Crowley spontaneously materialising just to taunt him for his own fascination.

There was silence, except for the faint banging of Ellen moving about the kitchen and Bobby speaking to her faintly. Everyone was busy, so they wouldn't be coming upstairs anytime soon. And even if they did, it didn't matter, because Dean wasn't doing anything wrong. Or suspicious.

Not at all.

Only in the privacy of his own mind did Dean allow himself to admit feeling a tad jumpy.

If only because he would set himself on fire if anyone were to walk in on him sitting watching an angel sleep. He felt dirty just thinking that.

But he wasn't doing anything _wrong_.

_He wasn't!_

Dean glanced around the room guiltily.

The angel screamed.

Startled, Dean jumped and toppled backwards over his chair. Ear-splitting screams filled the room, a duller version of angel-talk that overlayed a human voice in a strange harmony that was still severe enough to send Dean to his knees in agony. With no earplugs for protection, it felt like his brain was being liquefied.

On the bed, the angel was thrashing wildly, hands clawing at thin air as it wailed its suffering to the heavens. Blue eyes opened only to roll back into its skull, foam gathering at its lips.

The windows rattled in warning but didn't break as the single light bulb overhead flickered to life, only to immediately short out.

Tears clouded Dean's vision as the strange combination of human and angelic screaming surrounded him, dragged him down, deep down, ringing in his ears, in his soul, until it reached that place that housed a warm voice and a soft smile that held him close and whispered to him of angels. The tiny remnants of the child who had listened and believed with wide eyes surged forth, and then, Dean _knew_. As deeply and firmly as he knew his own name, as he knew anything at all, he knew that he'd done something unforgivable.

Screaming in his ears, his soul, condemning him for what he'd done – this sin so great nothing could wash away its stain – for the monster he'd become, that he _was_, that would rape another's very essence and leave it broken on the floor. What he'd done could not be undone. A crime so great there was no fitting punishment.

Murderer.

Sinner.

He deserved to _die_.

The screaming faded.

Light seeped through cracks in the darkness. Dean blinked wetly and frowned.

He was sitting hunched on the sofa, cradled in Ellen's arms, soft words being whispered into his hair as she stroked his neck. The cotton beneath his cheek was damp.

Dean extracted himself from the embrace, flushing with shame when he spotted the wet patch on Ellen's shirt. From his _tears_. He didn't even remember crying, but his eyes felt puffy and his throat tight, and when he slid away from Ellen, he realised he was _shaking_.

"_Wha_-"All that came out was an embarrassing croak. He tried to clear his throat as discreetly as possible. She handed him a beer, letting Dean busy himself with the familiar task as he tried to pull himself back together; Ellen tactfully not drawing attention to how his hand was shaking hard enough to make the beer slosh out the top.

Only when the bottle had been drained did Dean try speaking again. "What the hell happened?" he asked the ceiling, voice gruffer than usual. Either from the crying or the screaming, though which was the more humiliating was impossible to tell, and until someone verbally acknowledged his doing either he would do what he did best and pretend it never happened.

Ellen paused before replying. "We're not sure about that, hon. Far as we can tell, you were hit by some angel whammy. Are you–?"

"I'm _fine_," he cut her off before she said something he'd regret. "Feel like shit, but that's just my bruised ego hurting." He rubbed knuckles over his eyelids, wincing as his head throbbed. "Didn't think those angels could do that kind of mental shit after they'd been de-haloed."

Ellen's laugh was in no way amused. "Apparently it's a sort of angelic defence mechanism. There'll be some more weird stuff as the change happens, least ways that's what Bobby was told."

Dean glanced up sharply. "Who did he speak to? Was it Crowley?"

Ellen nodded unhappily. Dean rubbed his hands gleefully and went to stand up – he immediately toppled sideways, and was only saved the indignity of face-planting it on the floor by Ellen grabbing the back of his jacket to haul him back onto the sofa. Dean groaned in annoyance at the dizzy spinning in his head.

"It ain't what you're thinking," she said, rubbing his shoulders in a comforting way. "Bobby used the emergency line to get hold of him; damn near went out of his mind with worry when you went down, but Crowley's still busy with the demon revolt, so we're still on lockdown."

He scowled at that. "Aw hell, that means I'm still on angel-sitting duty, doesn't it?"

Seeing that he'd almost fully recovered, Ellen smiled, patting his head as she stood. "You betcha, kiddo. Don't worry about dinner; I'll bring it up to you."

Dean suspected she was smirking, though he couldn't see her face as she left. "Oh _sure_, I'd love to get right back to hanging out with the dude who can attack me _while he's freaking sleeping_," he yelled after her.

"All I ask is you to keep your hands to yourself," she yelled back.

Dean was glad he was alone, so no one saw him flush guiltily.

* * *

Day Two after the angel hunt began with Dean skulking down in the basement; making himself miserable listening to Sam's pained yells on the other side of the heavy iron door and starting in on his drinking a little earlier than usual.

Despite Ellen's best efforts to hide all alcohol in the house, every time lockdown was called he and Bobby went about damaging their livers like there was no tomorrow and refusing to sleep for more than an hour or so. The last time this had happened, Ellen had gotten so furious with them she'd stormed out and didn't return till three days later, leaving them to scrape by on tinned food (Dean was either to smashed or too hung-over to go on supply runs and Bobby couldn't go further than a ten foot radius of the house without his seal acting up).

This time around, he and Bobby were trying to keep their dealing methods as low key as possible – hurriedly sneaking a quick nip whenever Ellen was not around and keeping their sulking to empty rooms.

Sam's frightened cries echoed through the panic room, making Dean want to press himself up against cool metal and just reach through the walls and ease his baby brother's pain.

"Fucking _Crowley_," Dean muttered into his bottle of Jack. Even though he understood _why_ lockdown was necessary, like anything demon-related in his life, it still really, _really_ pissed him off.

Small scale rebellions by the demons still loyal to Lucifer usually never caused much of a fuss, but Dean hadn't needed an explanation when the Hellhound had zapped them into Bobby's car-yard instead of Crowley's angel barracks. There had been only one major uprising in Hell after the war – many of the demons clamouring to free Lucifer from his Cage so that he might rule Heaven and Earth – but that had ended abruptly and violently when Lilith had stepped in. Still, Dean remembered well enough how _that_ had gone down that he didn't kick up a fuss when Bobby calmly informed them that Crowley had ordered them on lockdown until he'd cleaned up the 'minor revolt'.

Until Sam went into withdrawal.

Lockdown meant no leaving Sioux Falls, and being in Sioux Falls meant no demons which _also_ meant no outside contact with demons, so pretty much that meant Sammy was screwed – unless Ellen could track down and successfully bleed a demon for them, but Bobby was adamant that she not leave the protection of Haven's Field, and Sam had refused to let her even _think_ of trying.

It took until the day after the hunt for Sam's condition to deteriorate enough that he had to be locked in the panic room, and another few hours for it to get so bad that Dean was no longer able to remain in the room with him as papers and pens began to move on their own. The last time Sam had gone into withdrawal Dean had learnt firsthand that, little brother or not, playing doctor to a hallucinating psychic ended up with broken bones and an extensive acquaintance with the iron walls.

As annoying as it is, Dean has no choice but to wait until the lockdown is over.

From above, a crunch of gravel signals Ellen's return from the library. Dean hurriedly stows his bottle behind a pile of rusted car-radios and bounds up the stairs two at a time. Lurching around the corner, he flies past the study, heading for the safe zone that is the kitchen when Bobby calls out after him.

"Shouldn't you be upstairs with that angel?" comes the gruff reminder from his fellow prisoner, causing Dean to skid to a stop with a curse and race back down the hall for the stairs.

He's makes it to the landing just as keys scrap in the lock and the front door swings open. He freezes in place, tucked safely around the corner from view.

As usual, Ellen displays the sixth sense apparently inherent in mothers and yells, "You're fooling no one, boy, so get back to babysitting that angel _now_."

Dean, realising he has no dignity left to salvage anyway, hurried to do as he's told. He still had the lump from being hit with a massive encyclopaedia (which Ellen had threatened to knock him out with over breakfast when she found he hadn't slept again).

After what happened last time, Dean enters the spare room warily with a hand brushing over his gun (just in case).

The angel's still lying on the bed, and still unconscious, but no longer lying still – instead, it's twisting and twitching, skin shiny with sweat and eyes clenched shut as it mutters what sounds like broken Enochian.

Dean cursed, glaring about the room in the hopes of finding someone to yell at. Just his luck that the angel gets a frigging _fever_ on his watch.

On the bed, the angel lets out a strangled moan.

Hopping nervously from foot to foot, Dean quickly lists and weighs the pros and cons of going over to help. It's a short list but a long struggle, and only his inherent craving to take care of Sammy that was going unfulfilled (and _not at all_ because of the pained whimpers) forces him over to the bed.

Slowly and _very_ cautiously, he pokes the angel's forehead. He wasn't immediately struck down by lightning or anything, so touching it seems to be okay. The skin is clammy and covered in a damp sheen, but it might as well be acid because Dean would rather die than mop someone's brow – hell, if he ever did, his balls would probably drop right off and he'd sprout a pair of breasts and start speaking like people from a period drama, 'cause there were just some lines in the sand he'd _never_ cross, not even for Sam. Well, okay, maybe for Sam, but that was years and years ago and it was his kid brother, so it didn't count.

Dean's contemplating whether he's brave enough to remove the angel's jacket and shirt, when blue eyes fly open and immediately lock onto him.

Dean freezes for a moment, simply lost in twin pools of blue before his brain wakes up to scream at him to run, because _hello_, danger danger Will Robinson.

But an attack doesn't come. Instead, the angel stretches out a hand towards him, looking so pathetically lost, Dean moves forward before he can even _think_ and grasps the trembling hand in his. Its palm is disgustingly damp, but the option of letting go is taken from him when fingers like a frigging vice close around his own, making Dean panic, because he didn't want to have his hand broken twice in the three days by the _same_ person; that would just be _embarrassing_.

"_Please_," a voice rasps, and Dean jumps.

Blue, blue, _blue_ eyes stare up into his own, too deep and too searchingly for him to be okay with, but the unbreakable hold on his arm stops him from pulling away like he really, really wants to. "_Please_," it said again, tugging on his hand. "Stop it_, please_."

Okay, now he's confused. "Stop what?" Dean asked stupidly.

The angel scrunched its face up in confusion as well. "The _pain_," it moans. "Please, _please_ make it stop."

_Wham_. Sideswiped by a shit ton of guilt, _great_, he really needed _that_.

"I can't," Dean said gently and, only because, okay, it was his fault the angel was like this, and they were alone in the room, and the angel was feverish so there was a good chance it wouldn't remember this anyway, he gave the angel's hand a comforting squeeze.

Urgh, he could _feel_ his testosterone levels dropping from the cheesiness.

If the angel heard him, it didn't matter, because it continued to feverishly babble at him. ""Please stop it, please, help me, _please_, oh God it _hurts_, please, please, I'm so _sorry_."

The apology hit Dean square in the gut, shame burning through him like a bushfire white-hot and unstoppable, because that was one thing he most definitely didn't deserve, least of all from this angel. He wanted to run, to pull away and curl up somewhere (preferably the impala) and let the guilt eat at him from within.

Gritting his teeth, Dean slowly prised the angel's fingers off of him and stood.

He didn't get far – the angel's hand shot out, gripping his bicep and hauling him back in close, too close, faces inches apart.

"Why?" the angel breathes against Dean's mouth, looking so lost and _broken_. "Why do you wish me to die?"

Before Dean can even process that sentence, the angel arched off the bed, spine bending alarmingly as what sounds like _bones_ crack and snap. Ignoring the agonising pain on his arm where the angel still gripped him, Dean jerked away so he could _see_ the curve of its back and the –

There were two lumps.

Two very _not_-shoulder-blade lumps.

Seizing the angel by the neck, Dean hauled it upright then forced its head down into its lap. The twin lumps were the size of footballs and still _growing_, swelling at an alarming rate before his eyes. The white dress shirt was not strong enough to hold in the rising bulges, the rip of fabric accompanied by the _ping_ of buttons ricocheting off the walls and ceiling.

Free from the confining fabric, Dean could at last see the lumps properly and then really wished he still couldn't.

They were two bulging bags of flesh and bones and veins and other bodily fluids he really didn't want to think about, and it was _moving_. Beneath the (too thin) layer of skin, Dean could actually make out the bones forming and extending, veins twisting around new ligaments, and budding muscles bunching and flexing.

When Dean was a young teenager, he'd kissed Brianna Straitsman, who unbeknownst to him at the time had a large pimple on her neck. He'd made the mistake of scraping his hand from her jaw to her shoulder as they were making out. What had followed had been absolutely disgusting and rather messy.

Unfortunately, the crucial action between remembering this and realising what was going to happen and _moving the fuck away_ didn't happen due to an unyielding grip on his arm.

As a last resort, Dean flung his free arm over his face.

There was a sickening splat.

The angel howled in agony. Dean lowered his arm.

The mattress and walls (and himself, but he was trying to pay no mind to that right then) were covered in blood and... and _fluids_ (which he really hoped was not pus) and some sort of black ooze which kind of burned where it touched his skin.

Not that he was paying that _any_ attention whatsoever, because he was too busy watching an angel grow a set of wings – because that's what they had to be, even if they didn't look anything like wings at that point (instead resembling something you might find at the bottom of the ocean – in the process of eating itself).

"Dean!"

Bobby and Ellen burst through the door, guns cocked, only to freeze in place at the scene before them. Dean shot them a helpless look and a shrug. Like they hadn't had weirder shit happen to them before.

By now, the 'wings' were nearly as long as the angel and almost fully formed, bone and sinew covered in milk-white skin, goofy-looking chicken-wing tips brushing the wall as they spasmed and flexed, muscles experimentally twitching before finally settling down, curling back towards the angel's shaking body.

The angel groaned, sounding exhausted, before slumping sideways onto the bed in an unconscious sprawl.

"Well, that was interesting," said Bobby blithely.

Dean turned slowly on the spot and stared. "Thanks for that detailed review Bobby, you really managed to underline the nature of the situation here."

"Least I'm not covered in angel juices," Bobby said pointedly.

Ellen gently laid a hand on Dean's arm, face creased with concern. "You okay there, honey?"

He rolled his eyes, smiling fondly. "I'm fine, 'part from all the deep psychological scarring watching that just caused I'll be good soon as I can get a shower and wash away all my trauma."

"No," she said, "I mean, your arm."

Only then did Dean glance down where her hand was. Even though she looked to be gripping his arm pretty tightly, he couldn't feel a thing. Huh, so the angel had struck again – what was with it fucking with his arms anyway?

In all this time, he hadn't realised that the angel still had a grip on his left bicep, hand still firmly pressed to skin, a patch of cool numbness that spread out from where they were joined, but as Ellen slowly peeled back its fingers one by one, Dean saw why – the flesh beneath had been burnt raw, skin angry and inflamed-looking in a perfect copy of the angel's hand seared across his left deltoid.

"Son of a bitch," muttered Dean, angrily poking the mark. Ellen slapped his hand away.

Bobby raised his brows. "Well, if it ain't too serious then there'll be no problem with you still keeping watch over the angel."

If Dean's eyes welled up at that, it was because of his injury and _not_ from the blatant unfairness. What was even the point of staying at home if he didn't even get to watch his shows?

Beside them, the angel mumbled in its sleep.

* * *

_A/N For anyone confused, this diverges wildly from canon around the season 2 finale mark, and is set about a year after that point._


End file.
